Before they could leave, Raspiel extracted a return invitation from Jareth for him and Elipsabet to visit the Castle Beyond the Goblin City. The Unseelie king implied that it was only right for Jareth to return the favor and give them a tour of the Labyrinth.
When Jareth politely agreed, it took nearly every fiber of Sarah's being not to stare at him in astonishment.
Once outside of the Unseelie mountain castle, Sarah turned on him. "Why in God's name would you invite them for a visit? They're horrible."
"That may be, but the fact still remains that Raspiel was correct," Jareth said.
"What?"
"When one is a guest in another's home, it is only polite to extend the same courtesy to them, should they express such a desire," Jareth explained calmly. He was forming another bubble-crystal to transport them as he spoke.
Sarah made a frustrated growling sound in the back of her throat and began taking her hair down from its elaborate braids. "You and your damned courtesy," she grumbled. "Why can't you be rude just once?"
"It takes less effort to be polite. And it arouses less suspicion," he said.
"Yeah? But it's not too smart to invite your enemy into your own home, or didn't you think of that?"
"I did think of that," Jareth said, his voice going cold. "I judged the danger to be minimal, as the Castle is my stronghold of power. We are in less danger there than we were in Rapiel's court.
"Oh, that's fantastic," she said, rolling her eyes. "That's like saying it's safer to invite a crazed mountain lion into your own living room than it is for you to join him in his cave. Semantics."
"I do not know that word," Jareth said.
"Well this isn't exactly the ideal time for a vocabulary lesson," Sarah snapped.
"Sarah," he said conversationally.
"What?"
"You're behaving like a shrew."
Sarah was struck dumb—a condition that only lasted a few short seconds before she began spewing invective at him. He was relatively immune to her curses as he did not understand the meaning behind most of them. He caught the word 'bastard' being repeated several times with increasing fervency, but was not particularly disturbed by it.
Jareth heaved an irritated sigh and held up a hand to forestall her tirade. "Much as I enjoy being likened to various parts of the human anatomy and foul-smelling beasts of burden, I was under the impression that you were as eager as I am to be gone from this place. However, if you've changed your mind, I'm sure it would be no trouble at all to persuade Raspiel to lend us a room for the night, and we can go home in the morning. Not until we've shared breakfast with them, of course—"
"Okay, okay," Sarah said hastily. Christ no, don't make me have breakfast with them. She could just imagine what revolting little delicacies that would include. Unhatched chicks boiled in some manner of cream sauce, or—she cut the thought off before she could imagine some other thoroughly disgusting entree.
"Let's get out of here," she said, and stepped through the wall of the bubble.
Jareth followed her and soon they were back in the throne room of the Castle.
"This place never looked so good," Sarah said. She crossed to the throne and flopped down in it. It wasn't nearly as comfortable as she'd imagined. "Jesus, I need a drink," she muttered. "A really big one."
With that thought, she fell asleep.
Jareth shook his head wryly and conjured a blanket to cover her, then went to find his own bed.
When Sarah woke the next morning, she had a crick in her neck and a monstrous headache. She wished she could attribute it to a hangover—at least if it had been a hangover, she was sure she would have enjoyed earning it—but the memories of the previous evening banished that optimistic idea before it was even fully formed.
There was a shuffling sound nearby and she cracked one eye open to investigate. Directly opposite her a little goblin with crinkled horns and patchwork fur was writing something on the wall with a nub of charcoal.
'Fickin (unintelligible) sunbich," Sarah read with amusement. And under that, 'as hols.'
Well, the goblins certainly were prolific little buggers, Sarah thought with a grin.
Thereafter, Sarah endeavored to teach some of the goblins to read and write. It was what she did—had done, she corrected herself—for a living after all. How hard could it be?
Much harder than teaching high school children the fundamentals of Faulkner, she soon found out.
Most of the goblins could speak in single syllable words if prompted. So far Midge was the only one that she had found who could speak in double syllables. He could also write his own name, though exact spelling often varied.
Sarah's lessons provided Jareth with no end of entertainment. In his opinion, she was wasting her time, and he said so, but as Sarah had retorted, it was hers to waste.
The way Sarah figured it, if all she succeeded in doing was teaching them how to spell the profanities they insisted on decorating the Castle walls with correctly, she could count it as job well done.
To her surprise, Midge did not prove to be Sarah's most promising student. He continually insisted on spelling his name with no 'd', or with two 'd's, and could not say a three syllable word to save his scruffy little soul. As she wasn't that fond of the annoying little beast anyway, she didn't force the issue.
Her best student turned out to be the sweet baby goblin she'd rescued from Shire in the dungeons. His name was Perrin, which Sarah thought was interesting, as he was unable to even pronounce it until she taught him how. He learned quickly and within six weeks, she was able to have a conversation with him—albeit a very simple conversation, like one might have with a toddler, but a conversation none the less.
She firmly believed that his aptitude for language stemmed primarily from his childlike desire to please her. He soon overcame his fear of Shire and became Sarah's constant companion, and could most of the time be seen, either following close at her heal, curled up in her lap like a puppy, or propped on her hip like a baby.
As her other 'students' began to lose interest in her lessons in favor of resuming their previous mischief-making, Perrin soon became her only pupil. This was fine with Sarah, who thought it was much better to have one interested student than a hundred indifferent ones.
"You'll never teach them how to talk," Jareth told her one afternoon as she was sitting down with the little goblin in the throne room for another lesson. "Let alone read or write."
"Them?" Sarah asked, indicating the goblins currently scrawling the word 'Fuck-heads' in giant letters across the mantelpiece with the juices of mashed up glowworms. "Probably not. However, if you'll notice, they're spelling is perfect."
He lifted a brow and studied the writing again. "Is it? And what exactly is a 'fuck-head'?"
Sarah thought about it. "Well, there are several possible definitions," she said at last. "None of which I particularly want to get into with you at the moment."
Jareth gave her a knowing look and smiled. "Maybe later then."
"Look, smart ass," Sarah said, amused despite herself, "I've already taught him a verse of Yeats."
"What the devil is a Yeats?"
Sarah ignored that and directed Perrin to recite.
"Come away, oh human child/ To the waters and the wild/ With a fairy hand in hand/ For the world's more full of weeping/ Than you can understand."
"Perfect," Sarah said, petting the goblin's head approvingly. He looked up at her with worshipful eyes and smiled.
"I suppose you think that's funny," Jareth said.
She laughed at the look on his face and said, "Yes, actually I do."
"It makes no difference," he said. "You've taught a goblin how to parrot a few lines of poetry. That doesn't mean anything."
"It means that with enough determination, they can be taught, and more importantly, they can learn," Sarah said. "Besides, he wasn't exactly parroting anything. He memorized it. It took me two weeks to teach him that."
"Wasted effort if you ask me," he grumbled.
"Well then, it's a good thing I wasn't asking you."
Perrin picked that moment to stick his tongue out at his king. Jareth scowled at the creature, who glared back at him, clinging to the sleeve of Sarah's shirt. The impertinent little monster was learning more than English from Sarah. Jareth had a feeling that this did not bode well for his ability to inspire discipline in his subjects. Not that they had any to begin with, but it would make it much more difficult for him to pretend that there was if they started blowing raspberries at him when he passed.
For those who are interested, here is the complete poem mentioned in the above chapter:
The Stolen Child
W.B. Yeats
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth wood in the lake
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats
There we've hid our fairy vats
Full of berries
And of Reddest Stolen Cherries.
Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
With a fairy hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light
By far off the furthest roses
We foot it all the night
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles
Whilst the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in it's sleep
Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above glen car
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
For the World's more full of weeping
Than you can understand
Away with us he's going
The solemned eyed
He'll bear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand
For he comes, the human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand
For the world is more full of weeping
Than you can understand